


From A Child's Eyes

by Cynaera (LFN_Archivist)



Series: P.J. [2]
Category: La Femme Nikita
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-11 00:13:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16464995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LFN_Archivist/pseuds/Cynaera
Summary: This story was originally posted to the LFN Storyboard Archives by Cynaera, who passed away in 2012.





	From A Child's Eyes

It had been three weeks since P.J. had died in Nikita's arms. Section One had gone back to business as usual. Outwardly. On another level, however, those who'd been touched by the thirteen year-old whiz kid were functioning within a more heightened sense of reality. They looked to be normal, with no anomalies in either their words or their physical actions. They seemed to have suffered no effects, ill or otherwise, from the death of the young boy who had wandered the halls of Section, his baseball cap backwards on his head, his baggy jeans and T-shirt hanging off his bone-thin frame as if they'd been purchased at Goodwill by a slightly blind but doting aunt. 

In spite of the superficial appearance of normalcy, each of them was experiencing his or her own private comprehension of what had been an undeniably life-bending event. P.J. had, in his unassuming way, altered them, singularly and as a group, and he'd done it without coercion or guile. He'd arrived suddenly and inadvertently into their workplace, and once there, he'd made himself at home, as much as he could, given his age, background, and medical condition. He'd befriended each of them on their own individual levels, which was why his death had been so excruciatingly painful for each of them. 

Now, three weeks later, none of them were the same people anymore. And, in the quiet of their lives, whether in Section or away from it, each of them thought about P.J. and how he had changed them. The introspection was an alien feeling to some, a familiar friend to others. One fact was irrefutable - P.J. had been a catalyst for implacable transition within the ranks, and it was happening despite anyone's best efforts to curtail it... 

~~~ 

Nikita lay with her back flat on the floor, her legs up on the couch, her eyes closed softly. She cried, soundlessly. She missed P.J. _I still hear your voice_ , she thought in anguish. _I still feel you dying, and nothing I could do could save you_... She tried to reconcile her actions with the boy's death, and she could not do it. He had died, in her arms, and with all her conviction and belief in the preservation of the innocent, she hadn't been able to give him back his breath and soul. His small hand had gone limp in her grip, and the childlike light had left his eyes so gradually and finally that she'd had no choice but to gather herself inside herself, stand, and leave the room, head held high. Her eyes had been deliberately focused on the wall in front of her - she'd known that if she'd looked around, her grief would have crumbled her like a sand castle at high tide. 

Especially, she'd known that if her eyes had met Michael's, she would have fallen to the floor, unable to pull herself from that room. 

So - she'd closed up, more completely than Michael had ever done, which had astonished and dismayed him momentarily, until he'd realized what had happened, and the reason for it. After she had left the atmosphere of death, she had maintained her carriage, looking at no one, speaking to no one, hearing no one. Her goal was her car, her apartment, her sanctuary. She'd made it, and once inside the door of her place, she had collapsed in tears, weeping until she couldn't breathe, tears flowing until she couldn't see, every breath an effort. 

She couldn't remember ever having cried so hard for so long before. After she was exhausted, she had gone into the bathroom, thrown up twice, taken a shower, and fallen into bed, not caring what time it was. Her cell-phone was on the nightstand in case she was summoned, although she'd doubted she would be. Sleep had been unexpected, yet it had come suddenly, and Nikita had been unconscious for almost twenty-four hours straight. She hadn't heard the quiet knock on her door, hadn't registered the sound of the key in her lock, hadn't been aware of the soft tread of someone on the stairs. She hadn't seen Michael standing in the bedroom doorway, his expression so full of sorrow that she would have been alarmed had she been awake. She didn't hear him leave, gently closing the door behind him... 

~~~ Three weeks since P.J. had died in her arms. And Nikita was still icy inside, still searching for meaning in her own life, justification for her sometimes atrocious actions, and the only rationalization she'd been able to come up with was that even the "greater good" had drawbacks, when it came to a young boy who'd only wanted to live, but who had to die... 

************ 

Mad'laine sat in her stark, over-light office, studying the latest tactical profile. Her mind, however, was not on the computer screen, but on the past - specifically, a young boy who had grinned at her impishly, handed her a carefully-folded piece of paper, and said, "This is a wish-talisman. I made it out of one of Birkoff's old schematics. Whenever you feel sad or afraid or alone, you just hold this in both hands, close your eyes, and make a wish. Blow on it - just once - and your wish will come true." He'd added, devilishly, "If you blow more than once, your hair falls out. Trust me on this one." 

Mad'laine remembered - and she sighed, and a lump of tears came to her throat when she remembered the simplicity of his gift to her. It had been foolish - she'd known it then as she knew it now. Childish and foolish. Yet, she'd taken the origami figure which had resembled a swan, had smiled indulgently, and had watched as P.J. had left her office, his hands dug into the pockets of his baggy jeans... 

Mad'laine opened her desk drawer, pulled out the wish-talisman, held it in both hands, closed her eyes, and, with tears coursing down her face, she made her wish... 

~~~ 

Three weeks since P.J. had died. Birkoff sat at his console, surrounded by his computers and his self-imposed cyber-isolation. He was busy - there were several missions running simultaneously, and he was monitoring each of them separately, his eyes everywhere, his fingers expertly typing commands on four different keyboards attached to a myriad of monitors. In the hubbub of the moment, he hadn't expected to be pierced with a sudden memory of P.J. - but it happened. It almost sent him sprawling. 

Stunned, Birkoff stopped all motion for a moment, and closed his eyes. He remembered P.J.'s words to him, before the boy had been carried to his room by Walter, before he'd quietly surrendered his soul. " _You have a gift, Seymour_ ," he'd said softly, his blue eyes boring into Birkoff's with an intensity which was frightening for one so young. " _I'd give almost anything to be where you are right now. You have a brain, and a talent, and you can use it to make the world a better place. Don't f**k it up by letting your cynicism take over. That'll KILL you, man. Use what you know to build up, not tear down_..." 

Birkoff wondered how a thirteen year-old kid could reach into a person's mind and pluck out the one fear they'd had since childhood, then turn it around and make it something positive... He could still see P.J., the crooked smile, the backward baseball cap, the baggy pants - the shiny blue eyes, so full of life and wonder. 

Birkoff didn't bother to glance around to see if anyone was noticing him. He took his glasses off, because he was crying, and he hated when they fogged up. Silently, he sheltered his face in his hands, eyes still closed, and remembered the boy who'd taught him how to live... 

~~~ 

As five different missions ran in various stages of completion, Operations was pacing in the aerie, aware that he hadn't had a cigarette in over three weeks. The craving was there, but deeper than the addiction was the desire to be all that he could be, to that infernal kid who'd twisted him around his finger with a crooked smile and an impish glint of blue eyes. _Damn_ , he thought, frustrated. _Damn, damn. P.J., why did you have to die_? With all the technology and resources at Section One's disposal, they could not save one child's life - the irony and agony of it was not lost on Operations, and it only exacerbated his frustration. 

He ran a hand over his head, feeling the recent alien texture of his new haircut - buzzed on top, Marine-style. He'd done it spontaneously, irrationally, without really stopping to consider his decision. He knew Mad'laine would have her own theory about his reasons for it, but he didn't want to know her thoughts. Not about this - not about his feelings for P.J. It was still a raw wound for him, and he refused to let anyone see him grieve. When he put aside his sorrow for a moment, Paul knew that part of the reason he'd cut his hair was in silent deference to P.J., who had lost his hair because of the treatments he'd been undergoing for his cancer. It was a homage to the boy's courage and spirit. Operations knew he would never be the same - P.J. had made sure of that, and he hadn't even realized it... 

************ 

Three weeks since P.J. had died. Walter stood in munitions, the most recent stack of weapons from the last mission still piled on his work table. He knew there was a lot to do, and he had several weapons which would need complete overhauls, yet he could not jerk his mind away from the voice he kept hearing - P.J.'s voice, echoing as if from across a canyon - _I love you, too, Walter... I love you, too, Walter_... He angrily swiped at his eyes, where tears were forming, even after all this time, and shook his head irritably. _The kid's wormed his way into your tough old heart_ , Walter thought, and smiled in spite of the pain. Not that he needed a lesson in humanity the way some people in Section did, but he'd still learned something valuable from P.J. It wasn't the quantity of love, but the quality. His Belinda had begun to teach him that, but she'd been taken from him before he could fully appreciate what she'd been trying to tell him. P.J. had completed her training of Walter, and the boy didn't even know it. 

Now, Walter knew who his friends were, and what they each deserved, regardless of what their actions might have appeared to be. In particular, Operations. Walter had learned the reasons behind Belinda's cancellation, and he knew the inevitable could have been postponed, but not avoided. Though he was still struggling to come to terms with that, P.J. had, in his childlike-yet-wise way, made Walter realize that he'd had wonderful, exquisitely happy times with her. Quality, not quantity. Life-spans in Section One were notoriously short. He'd been permitted to love, to live, to laugh. Now, he was being permitted to mourn. And he mourned P.J. - every single day, since that day three weeks ago when he'd carried the boy to his room, feeling every bone in the child's body, hearing every hard-won breath. 

Walter put down the gun he'd been holding, sat on his workbench, covered his face with his hands, and wept, again... 

~~~ Michael had turned off before he'd reached Nikita's apartment the day after P.J. had died. He'd sincerely meant to go there - to tell Nikita what burned in his heart. Halfway to her place, Michael had been seized with a panic and a grief so strong he'd had to pull off the street for a moment. He'd kept hearing P.J.'s voice, kept seeing the boy's face, his eyes shiny with amusement and a touch of seriousness. _Tell her_ , he'd said earnestly. _Tell her you love her_... And Michael, though he'd wanted to tell Nikita so many things, could not form the words, could not even make himself go to her, at first. And when he'd finally arrived there, she had not answered his quiet knock, so he'd let himself in, for the first time since she'd come back from the fateful mission that had almost taken her life. He'd seen her asleep, the bluish shadows under her eyes telling him more loudly than any words that she was exhausted. He'd left - she needed rest more than confessions. He'd spent his week of downtime alone, walking the streets of the city, thinking about his life and where he'd gone wrong. 

He and Nikita had been sent on separate missions after that week, and he hadn't seen her at all - when he was arriving, she was already gone. He began to feel like he'd missed his window of opportunity. He tried to rationalize that it was probably for the best - if he'd gone to her that day, as he'd intended to do, he would have mucked up the words, come across as unemotional and cold, or, worse, incoherent. He had been too wrapped up in his own sorrow to be of any comfort or enlightenment to Nikita. The grief over P.J.'s death had been too fresh in his mind and heart, as he knew it had to have been in Nikita's. It was better this way, he told himself. 

Now, Michael was in his office, typing the endless series of reports which seemed to be necessary for the survival of Section One. His thoughts drifted to P.J., and the boy's words to him. _I'll tell her, someday_... Michael thought, and closed his eyes slowly, feeling the familiar headache beginning to pound behind his eyes. 

In the next moment, he was up from his desk, logging off, grabbing his black peacoat and exiting his office in a haste so foreign to him that he was giddy from it. He felt an urgency to be out of the building, a feeling so strong it was frightening, and he hoped he could make his escape without observers who might report his absence to Operations. He didn't know that, as usual, monitors caught his actions and a nameless voice came through to Operations at the same moment Michael had closed his office door. "He's leaving, sir." 

"Good," Operations replied placidly. "Let him go. And cut surveillance." 

************ 

A knock at Nikita's door sent her lurching to her feet and lunging for her gun. She checked the safety, crept to the door, and looked into the security viewer. Michael. 

_Why now_? She wondered, wiping tears. _Why NOW_? 

Slowly, she opened the door, hoping she didn't look as ravaged by sorrow as she felt. In the next second, she saw something flash across Michael's face - grief? recognition? sympathy? - even as she stepped aside and said softly, "Come in, Michael." 

He entered the apartment, noticing, as he always did, details around him. She'd hung new pictures since he'd last been here, he mused, remembering that the last time he'd been here, he'd slammed her against the refrigerator door in his desperation to make her understand the folly of her actions. He glanced over at the refrigerator as Nikita closed the front door, and he realized, with a touch of humor, that the dent was still there. No magnets, no pictures - just a dent. 

He followed her into the living room, and waited for her customary gracious offer of a drink. "I'm just making some tea - would you like something?" she asked, and Michael almost smiled again. He knew her so well... 

"No, thank you," he said, and his voice was husky, his eyes faraway. Nikita made to go into the kitchen to put water on, but Michael took her upper arm gently, stopping her. She looked down at his fingers, then up into his eyes. He released her, recognizing the warning. 

"Nikita," he began, and his eyes left hers, darting to a place past her shoulder for a moment, as they always did when he was trying to express truth to her. She froze, staring at him, waiting, wondering what earth-shattering revelation he was about to drop on her. After a second, Michael took a breath and resumed, "Would you please come with me?" 

Her heart dropped into her kidneys. _I'm cancelled_ , she thought in a panic. _But what did I DO_? Her eyes filled with tears, and she began to shake her head, slowly, disbelievingly. She took a step backwards, then another, almost daring Michael to come after her. 

Michael saw her reaction and was aghast - _Does she really hate me so much_? he wondered, pained. Then, in the next instant, he heard P.J. again, telling him to tell her his feelings - and he took another breath, a deeper one, and said, very softly, "Nikita - I need to talk to you about--" his voice disappeared for a moment, and he fought to find it again, "--things..." 

He watched her face - wary, fearful, tearful - and she whispered, "Michael, am I dead? Did Section send you to cancel me?" 

Shocked, Michael had no words for a second. Then, it all made sense to him - her actions, her fear, her words... "No, Nikita," he said, and a smile - a _real_ smile - crossed his features. "Nothing like that." He paused, then said, "I just wanted to talk to you about P.J., and some things he taught me..." 

Nikita instantly relaxed, and in the next moment, the tears fell. "I _miss_ him, Michael..." she whispered. "I miss him so much..." 

"I do, too," Michael answered, and his green eyes darkened in pain. He held out his hand, gently. "Please, Nikita..." 

Recognizing that Michael was trying to open up to her, in his inscrutable fashion, she glanced around her apartment, looking for her jacket. She realized she was still holding her gun, and, with a crooked smile, she left Michael's proximity to put the weapon in the drawer in the kitchen. While she was doing it, Michael had found her jacket, knowing instinctively that she had been searching for it. He helped her on with it, then, after they'd exited the apartment, he double-checked the door. As Nikita led the way, she thought, _Oh, Michael - always protecting me_... 

~~~ 

The lake seemed deserted. The afternoon sun was warm, though the wind had become a bit cooler with the onset of fall. It was three weeks ago that Michael had brought P.J. to this dock. They'd kicked off their boots and socks, rolled their pant legs up and dangled their feet in the water, and they'd talked about life. Michael had felt a conscious relaxation in his chest as he'd talked to P.J., about his days before Section One, and how his life had changed since then. 

Now, Michael sat in the same place with Nikita at his side, their bare feet dangling in the water, stirring up waves. Nikita spoke about her life before Section, and was surprised to hear Michael's soft voice whispering at one point during their conversation, "I know you didn't kill anyone..." She stared at him, and his pain was so obvious she was astonished she hadn't seen it before. It was all there - everything Michael was, everything he dreamed of being, everything he felt he could never be - in his emerald eyes. 

Nikita felt a surge of tears and emotion, but she choked it back. She could tell there was more to be revealed, and it _would_ be, if she would but keep silent a little longer. Her patience was rewarded. 

"I've always known," he said very softly, his eyes gazing out to the water. "I've excused a lot of what Section has forced me - and YOU - to do. The greater good, I've told myself. For the greater good. But P.J. brought it all into perspective for me, and I need to tell you..." 

His voice broke off, and Nikita knew what he was saying was difficult for him. She wondered if it had been P.J. who had caused Michael to open his heart to her now, and she realized she wouldn't be surprised if Michael said as much to her. She didn't think too much about it - there were many things to be revealed, and the moment was magic... She whispered, "Tell me what, Michael?" 

There was a moment - longer than infinity, shorter than a gasp, excruciating as a bullet-wound - then, Michael inhaled deeply, his eyes closed. Nikita was leaning toward him as if to catch his words in her eyes. When he finally said them, they were soft as a breath, barely whispered, yet they resounded in her mind as if he'd shouted them out loud. "I love you, Nikita..." 

She felt the world fall away from her then - there was only Michael, and he was holding her hand so tightly there would no doubt be bruises in the next day or two. His voice came through to her, a plainly-heard beacon, his song musical and beautiful. "P.J. wanted me to tell you, and I realized he was right... There was no reason to keep it inside any longer..." 

Nikita began to cry - P.J. was with them, even though he was dead. His voice was her mantra, his face was her focus. And now, Michael's love was her warm coat and her shelter from the storm... Her tears streamed down like the rain that would come soon enough on the lake - the place where dreams where realized and feelings were made clear. 

Michael stared at her, his own eyes filling with tears. _I finally told her_ , he whispered silently to P.J. _I finally let her know that I love her_... He could almost see P.J.'s face, grinning, those blue eyes shining in approval, that overly-wise expression soft and happy... 

The sun set over the lake in breathtaking orange and silver and red - neither Michael nor Nikita saw it - they were locked in each other's arms, clinging to each other as if to defy a hurricane. And around them, in that hurricane, was a child's voice, echoing, " _Life's too short... Make it count... Give love, and make it real...Isn't that what most people want for the future, anyway_?..."


End file.
